


The boy's a slag, the best you ever had

by MetaZigs (Zigster)



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Prequel, Spoilers for Series 2, Wish Fulfillment, canon complaint, different first meeting, involving slags, lovable slags though, this is a what if prequel, what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-12 08:30:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19128343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigster/pseuds/MetaZigs
Summary: An AU wish-fulfillment story in which our favourite delinquents meet in a universe where she's yet to hit rock bottom and he never became a priest.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wysiwygot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wysiwygot/gifts).



> I binged this series in three days. I'm in awe of PWB's talent and her writer's voice. There is no way I've even come close to mimicking her tone but I tried. I hope you enjoy.

This is a love story, but not in the way you’re expecting.

First, I should explain a few things. Like, the fact that I prefer meaningless sexual encounters to endlessly boring, wholesome first dates with pathetic losers (like me) who are ‘ _just hoping to find a connection_ ’. Right, like truly connecting with someone is that simple and can be sought out across a candlelit table from you holding a glass of cheap wine and an over-eager smile that will slip and fall away the second you say something wrong or crass or politically unsound, according to their very high and mighty (and bullshit) standards. No, that shit is not simple. That shit is work. And relationships are nothing but complicated festering sores on the bulging backside of human existence. So, meaningless sex. Yes, please.  
  
Second, I’m not an idiot, I realise that this type of lifestyle is not sustainable. Nor is it wise, or particularly healthy (shut up, I use protection and get tested regularly, ta.) I’m fully aware that as soon as my tiny tits start to sag and my bum starts to widen, I will have lost most of what people find attractive in me, and any shred of self-worth I’ve managed to hold onto throughout my twenties (thirties) will finally wash away in the pissing London rain like vomit down a sewer drain.  
  
Yes, I realise this and someday I have promised myself to change. Probably. Maybe. Just let me get a drink first.

Monday night is the best night to go out in London. In any city for that matter. Fuck Friday or Saturday with their hopeful tourists sporting backpacks and their scheming businessmen in ill-fitting suits. Every pub or bar or club is packed to the gills with too many hands and too many mouths. It’s overwhelming and not in the exciting, spark-of-danger type of way that can sometimes be a total turn-on, which leads to a frenzied hand-job in the loo. No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just shit. Overly crowded and not my scene.  
  
Monday, however . . . on Monday, the poor sods who are pouring your drinks at last-call on a Friday are finally having one of their own, free of the yoke of their overbearing yet underpaying professions. It’s the ‘industry’s’ night off. Their only night off. So, all of those chefs and bartenders and servers who slog about all week serving up chips and crafted vintage cocktails to the ungrateful masses are looking to blow off a bit of steam.  
  
That’s my cue.  
  
You see, a relatively attractive woman with a killer pair of legs (my only true asset) and a roving eye is a rather uncommon thing to see in a quiet bar on a quiet Monday. I have my pick of the litter. Any man (or woman) that strikes my fancy can (normally) be reeled in with a minimal amount of effort on my part. Which is just as well. My efforts are best spent elsewhere on these evenings if you get me. . . of course, you get me. Sorry. Moving on.  
  
So, in short, I like to fuck, and I prefer to do it on Monday nights in the slightly run-down yet hip parts of London where guys with names like Phoenix (seriously) or Brooklyn (not Beckham, I asked) can be found lazing about the bar with a lowball of whisky and a glint of horndog in their eyes. I know the type well, they’re easy to spot. Wrinkled shirt, too-tight pants, three-day-old scruff, possible leather jacket, possible drinking problem, definite insecurity about their sexual ability despite their outward bravado. All in all, if you ever come across such a specimen in the wild, don’t hesitate to pounce because ladies (and gents) it’s a sure thing.  
  
“Hiya,” I say, slipping in beside such a creature, head bowed over his phone. He looks up, startled. His eyes turn from questioning to flirting in two seconds (how flattering) and he puts the phone face-side down on the bar. (Very flattering.)  
  
“Hello yourself.”  
  
“You a bartender?” I ask, smirking.  
  
He hesitates. “Yeah, how’d you—”  
  
I pull back his half rolled-up shirt sleeve to reveal a god-awful tattoo of a cocktail shaker, stirrer and (inexplicably) a pair of dice. I lift an eyebrow. He looks down, sees his forearm then shakes his head with a laugh.  
  
“Clever.”  
  
I lift my glass, “cheers.”  
  
“Cheers.”

...

I won’t bore you with the sordid details, but frankly, bagging him was cake. And afterwards, we had cake. Off each other’s stomachs at 2 AM. Turns out, he lived with a pastry chef named Portia and she was not opposed to joining in on dessert.

...

This brings us to another Monday night in late August. It’s hot and I’ve had entirely too much gin, which inevitably leads to a certain amount of over-the-top promiscuity. I can’t help it, though I can help the gin, but gin is delicious and Mondays are my night off. Why am I attempting to justify my behavior, again? Oh, right, this is supposed to be a love story. Ha!  
  
I’m seated at the copper-topped bar of a millennial magnet/speakeasy-style club, wearing a lovely little romper with tiny foxes jumping about all over the fabric. It’s short, shows off my legs. I love this romper, it never fails me. It’s a good luck piece if you will.  
  
The bartender raises an eyebrow at me and I nod, signaling easily for more gin. It does not escape my notice that Mr. Bartender goes heavy on the tonic, light on the booze, but I cheers him just the same when I take a sip. It’s deliciously cold and slides easily down my throat. Bliss.  
  
“Oh, fuck!”  
  
I jump, spilling some of my blissfully refreshing gin all over the bartop. “Jesus!”  
  
“No, seriously. I’m sorry, but your dress . . . is that a dress, or . . . there’s foxes!”  
  
I turn to look at this utter idiot with the most withering glare I can muster up on split-second notice. “What the actual fuck?”  
  
“Sorry!” He says, putting his hands up to shush me as if I’m some spooked horse. I continue to glare. He continues to look frantic (slightly manic, actually) and invade my space.  
  
“Well? Are you going to explain yourself, then?”  
  
The idiot runs his hands through his hair and does a spin. A literal spin, as if his fight or flight reflex is physically manifesting itself in his body. Indecisive prat. He hasn’t even offered to pay for my drink.  
  
(Dick.)  
  
“Jim,” he calls to the bartender. “Can we get another round? Thanks.” Of course, an Irishmen would know the bartender’s name. Typical. I’m going to pretend that this doesn’t irk my ego because I’ve been trying to get dear old Jim’s name (and his number) for months and here this idiot knows the man well enough to shout an order over everyone’s heads. Still, this Irish arsehole did order me a new drink. There’s that, at least.  
  
He’s pulling out a stool and sitting next to me with a heavy sigh before I can even tell the bastard to fuck off. Apparently, he’s decided to stay and torture me with his presence.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he starts. Again. “You’re gonna think I’m mad.”  
  
(Already do.)  
  
“I’m not mad, I swear.”  
  
(Yeah, no. He’s totally bonkers.)  
  
“It’s just . . . I have this thing with foxes. I feel like they follow me?”  
  
(Someone call the police.)  
  
“They just . . . show up. Everywhere.”  
  
(Please.)  
  
“And I just . . . saw your dress. Really though, is that a dress?”  
  
“It’s a romper.”  
  
“A romper?”  
  
“Yes. One piece. Shorts on the bottom.”  
  
“Huh.” He gets distracted, his eyes sliding down over my legs. His eyes are dark, almost black, and while I’m not opposed to the ogling, I’m beginning to feel uncomfortable under this man’s intense gaze. I shift in my seat, cross my legs in the opposite direction and clear my throat.  
  
“You were saying?”  
  
“Right! Foxes. Everywhere. They freak me out.”  
  
“Clearly.”  
  
“Yeah. Sorry ‘bout that.”  
  
“You realise my romper is covered in fake foxes, right? These little guys are not going to get you. They’re fabric”  
  
“Fabric. Right.” He’s smiling at me. Eyes glassy, overly affectionate.  
  
(He’s totally pissed.)  
  
“You’re totally pissed.”  
  
“Ha!”  
  
“You’re not denying it.”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“I have an urge to tell you to fuck off.”  
  
His smile broadens. “Likewise.”  
  
Neither of us moves.  
  
Jim places two new drinks down in front of us. I narrow my eyes at the man. Traitor. Way to leave an open invitation for Pissed Paddy here to stay and tuck in. I turn to look at him beside me, considering. He’s still smiling, though his eyes have gone back to staring at my legs. (Okay, then.) I smirk.  
  
“Shall we toast?”  
  
“What?” He blinks, refocusing on my face. (This is too easy.)  
  
“A toast. To foxes?”  
  
“Oh, Christ no. They’re horrifying.”  
  
I laugh at him, falling forward a little so that my hand can slap at his thigh. The muscles beneath his jeans are tight, toned. (Shit.) I let my hand linger and feel him flex beneath my fingers. He’s aware of what I’m doing. He’s played this game before. He turns, his knee coming into contact with my thigh, pressing in. Obvious. (This is happening.)  
  
“I need to ask you a question.”  
  
Paddy smirks. “Sure. What?”  
  
“Do you have a name?”  
  
“I do.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“Do you?”  
  
I grin at him, rubbing my thumb over the seam of his jean-clad thigh. “I do.”

... 

Alright, do you really need to know the rest? Clearly, I took this drunk Irishman home. It’s not like you need to know about how he kept his hand resting on my knee the entire time in the taxi, his fingers teasing over the skin of my thigh in the most deliciously possessive yet gentle show of affection ever. Nor do you need to know about the soft kisses he pressed into my neck, the hot heat of his breath teasing at the shell of my ear as he whispered compliments to me about my legs, my skin, my smile, building me up and turning me on at the same time. By the time the taxi pulled up outside my flat, I barely had the door locked behind us before I was slamming the man into my sitting room wall and attacking his generous mouth with my own. Foxes be damned.  
  
He had on too many clothes but I had his flies undone within seconds and I was sinking to my knees before him, so ready to do this when . . . his hands touched my face, gentle, feather-light, lifting my chin to look up at him. He shook his head at me, his dark eyes intent as he pulled me up back to standing and led me down the hall. Fuck, if that wasn’t a turn-on too. I was willing, so willing to swallow him down whole right then and there and he instead took me to my bedroom (he somehow knew which door, creepy but still sexy) and laid me out on the bed like something to savour.  
  
Oh, right, I wasn’t supposed to be telling you this. I mean, it’s not like the sex was _that_ good.  
  
(Holy shit, it was _really fucking good_.)  
  
Or, like, he was overly considerate.  
  
(He went down on me for an hour. Seriously, I clocked it.)  
  
Or talented with his tongue.  
  
(I came five times.)  
  
My god, that tongue.  
  
(Five. Times. Just from his tongue.)  
  
Or like his dick was anything to be impressed about.  
  
(Christ, his dick was gorgeous. Penises, as a rule, are normally not that pleasant to look at. This penis, though, was attractive. I was physically attracted to his dick, okay? I’m actually disturbed by my reaction to it. Enough said. Moving on.)  
  
It’s not like I wanted to cry or anything from being so over stimulated I couldn’t breathe.  
  
(I’m pretty sure a tear ran down my cheek.)  
  
Or how afterwards he ran a bath for me and we sat in the suds smiling like idiots at each other.  
  
(It’s true.)  
  
And then we fell back into bed, holding each other.  
  
(I hate cuddling.)  
  
And are still holding each other.  
  
(Seriously, I hate cuddling but please, never let me go.)  
  
It’s not like I’m in love or anything.  
  
(Fucking shit. I’m in love.)  
  
It’s just an overflow of oxytocin.  
  
(Who cares? Marry me?)  
  
Seriously. It wasn’t _that_ great.

 

It was so fucking great.

 ...

  
Two months later, I’m sulking into my iced coffee while my sister glares at me from across the table.  
  
“Seriously, you have got to get out of this funk. You’re making me feel . . .”  
  
(She loves when I’m down. It makes her feel superior.)  
  
“ . . . superior to you.”  
  
(See?)  
  
“I know.”  
  
“So snap out of it. It’s stressful.”  
  
(She loves stress.)  
  
“I’m trying.”  
  
“No, you’re not. You’re sulking.”  
  
(True.)  
  
“Have you even gone out since?” She asks, knowing me too well.  
  
I shrug. It’s answer enough. I’ve been too depressed to fuck. Which is even more depressing because fucking was my coping mechanism for everything negative in my life and now even fucking is a negative. Fuck.  
  
“I’m worried about you.”  
  
I look at her. She’s sincere. Her eyes strained with tension. I sit up.  
  
“Was he that good?”  
  
I slouch down again. “God, yes.”  
  
“Did he really draw you a bath afterwards?”  
  
I nod at the table.  
  
“And then make you breakfast in the morning?”  
  
Nod.  
  
“You don’t even eat breakfast.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“Was it good?”  
  
“So good. French toast.”  
  
Claire gasps. “You love French toast.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“And he did give you his number.”  
  
“Yup.”  
  
“But—”  
  
“It’s been disconnected.”  
  
“What a shit.”  
  
“Yup.”  
  
Silence falls. I sip at my coffee. Claire picks at her scone.  
  
“It just doesn’t add up, though, does it?”  
  
I look up. Claire is pondering things beyond my comprehension. How is it that she’s the positive one in this situation? She’s never the positive one.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“A man just doesn’t go down on you for an hour, fuck you in oblivion,” I snort at her phrasing. She points at me with a stern finger _your words not mine_  before continuing to say, “. . . draw you a bath, make you breakfast, and then leaves a fake number.”  
  
“This man does.”  
  
“Well then, what a total shit.”  
  
I agree. “Total shit.”

...

  
It’s not like I sent him off the day after thinking that I’d never see him again. We were smiling and giddy and he kept coming back to the stoop to kiss me _one more time_ before jogging off down the street to work. I watched him go, waving with a stupid grin on my face. I walked to the cafe that day glowing. Feeling alive and gorgeous from the inside out. I was actually happy. Content. It was horrifying and life-affirming all at once.  
  
But then the inevitable happens. I try to call. He doesn’t pick up, the phone just rings until a machine is telling me the number has been disconnected. I frown at the phone. Try for a text. Same thing. Disconnected.  
  
It’s been a downward spiral since. My life is a meaningless series of empty days spread out before me without direction or purpose. I am a shell of my former self. The Irishman has broken me. I am broken.

...

God, this is starting to sound so maudlin. This was supposed to be a love story, I do remember saying that. And it is! Sort of.

...

I’m sitting in the cafe, pulling at my curls, lamenting my too-short haircut when the jingle of the doorbell sounds. There's a customer. I don’t look up. I don’t need to, it’s probably just Fred.  
  
“Hiya. Take a seat wherever. I’ll be with you in a moment.”  
  
“Alright.”  
  
Perfect. They’re Irish. I sigh and slouch away from the counter to turn on the kettle before grabbing a menu and facing the front of the shop.  
  
I stop cold.  
  
“Holy fuck.”  
  
He’s here. Sitting. In my cafe. Smiling at me with a childlike eagerness on his face, like he broke his mother’s favourite teacup and hopes to not be punished for it.  
  
Fuck that.  
  
“What the fuck!” I throw the menu at him, but it’s paper so it flits to the floor like a leaf falling from a tree. Pathetic.  
  
He just sits there, staring at the menu, eyes wide. He swallows. “I owe you an apolo–”  
  
“Fucking right you do!” I step forward, blood boiling.  
  
He lifts up his hands, placating, again. I hate it when he does that. I’m not a fucking animal to be tamed.  
  
“Start talking!”  
  
“I’m trying to!”  
  
“Talk faster!”  
  
“Alright!”  
  
“Where the fuck have you been?”  
  
“Ireland!”  
  
We’re shouting. A customer tries to enter. Sees us then turns on his heel and bolts. Fine then. Whatever.  
  
I turn back to Dickface. “Why Ireland?”  
  
“I’m Irish if you didn’t notice!”  
  
“I had!"  
  
(His accent is dead sexy.)   
  
“Why are we shouting?”  
  
“Because!”  
  
We pause. My chest is heaving and I hate him but he’s here and he's in this amazing blue sweater that clings to the muscles of his arms and I want to lick his neck and bite his head off at the same time. My anger is quickly spilling over into horndog territory and I need to keep my shit together because this really isn’t the right time.  
I take a step back. The kettle has boiled. I turn and slam two cups onto the cooktop behind the counter. I start making tea. I have no idea why I’m doing this, but it’s something to do and I need to maintain a safe distance between myself and that fucking blue sweater. I want to rip to shreds. With my teeth.  
  
“Talk!”  
  
“Okay. Okay.”  
  
I peak over my shoulder. He’s sitting with his head in his hands. I want to feel sorry for him but I’m too busy fuming over the months I’ve spent waking up from dreams of having him smile at me from across the kitchen table as he hands me a fresh-baked scone topped with lemon curd.  
  
My brain is evil.  
  
“I can’t hear you,” I say, pouring hot water into the cups.  
  
“Fuck!”    
  
I turn at the outburst, blinking at him.  
  
He’s rubbing at his face with his hands. “Sorry. Just. Fuck.”  
  
“You were saying.” I prompt, hesitant.   
  
“I was in Ireland.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
The tea has steeped. I pour cream in his, put sugar in mine, and carry both over to his table. If I accidentally slosh some into his lap, causing him to jump back in surprise and glare at me with eyes that turn black as tar with heat as soon as they see me, well. I can’t help it. I’m a bitch.  
  
“Ta,” he grits out, taking his tea and wiping at his lap with his other hand.  
  
I nod, momentarily satisfied. “You’re welcome.”  
  
I sit.  
  
We sip.  
  
Silence.  
  
(I can’t stand this.)  
  
“I will seriously pour the entire fucking kettle over your head if you–”  
  
“I was in rehab.”  
  
(Wait, what?)  
  
“What?”  
  
He nods at me and drags a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in tufts. It's not endearing. (It is.) He looks tired. (Exhausted.)   
  
“I was in rehab,” he repeats. “For a month. Then stayed with me da another month longer. There were some things I needed to take care of back home.”  
  
(Okay. There’s a definite story there but first—)  
  
“Rehab?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
He winces and I can feel my stomach drop through the floor beneath me. Shit. He sees my reaction and shakes his head.  
  
“No, it’s not as bad as all that. I’m not a junkie or anything.”  
  
“Then what is it?”  
  
He sighs, his face twisting with embarrassment. “Hypersexuality.”  
  
I snort. I can’t help it. “That’s not . . . what?”  
  
“Hypersexual disorder.”  
  
(Seriously?)  
  
“You’re a sex addict?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“So wait. You gave me the greatest sex of my life. _Literally._ Then left me to go to rehab? For sex? Because, what? You’re just too good at it?”  
  
“Yes. I mean, no! I . . . I just want to have it. All the time.” He says, raising a shoulder in an endearing and maddening shrug.  
  
(How is this a bad thing, again?)  
  
I stand up and step away from the table. I’m confused and turned-on and need space. No wonder his tongue is so fucking talented. It’s had a lot of practice.

I cross back over to stand behind the counter.  
  
“How many people have you had sex with?”  
  
He looks at me, sincere and vulnerable. It’s a deep look. Like an ocean, kind of deep.  
  
(Fuck.)  
  
“Fuck.”  
  
He nods. “Yeah.”  
  
“Should I be running to the nearest clinic right now?”  
  
He looks up from his tea, confused then with dawning recognition. “What? No! No. It’s fine. I’m . . . I’m fine. I mean, I’ve been tested. I’m fine.”  
  
(Thank fuck.)  
  
“Thank fuck.”  
  
“Ha. Yeah. I’m an addict, not an idiot.”  
  
“Still.”

(Accidents can happen.)  
  
He nods. “Yeah, I know.”  
  
“But you’re. . . ?”  
  
“Yeah. I’m good. No need to worry.”  
  
I take a moment to let my heart rate fall back into a normal rhythm before realising something. “Wait, your phone?”  
  
“They take away our phones.”  
  
“Then . . . why did you give me your number?”  
  
“Well, immediately going to rehab wasn’t exactly a planned thing.”  
  
I shake my head, confused, my anger returning.  
  
He cuts me off before I can even get started. “Look, can you have a seat?”  
  
I sit.  
  
He explains.

...

It turns out, my pussy is magic because he fucked me, realised he had a problem, and signed himself up for sex rehab the next day to rid himself of the evil urges lurking in his system that were telling to keep fucking me. How flattering.

He shakes his head at me for the millionth time. “No, you’re not understanding me—”  
  
“Oh, no. I get it.”  
  
“No, you're not. It’s not that I don’t want to have sex with you.”  
  
“You just can’t have sex with me.”  
  
“No! I can!”  
  
I stare at him. “But you won’t?”  
  
“Not for at least six months. It’s part of the program. I need to keep my head clear.”  
  
“You’re kidding.”  
  
“Unfortunately, no.”  
  
“I hate you.”  
  
He sighs. “I know.”  
  
“You can seriously just fuck off.”  
  
He nods, looking sad and pathetic and like a little lost puppy that just needs love and did I mention the sweater with the arm muscles because I still want to tear the thing right off his body with my teeth and . . .  
  
(Shit. Am I a sex addict?)  
  
“You’re not.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You’re not like me. Don’t worry.”  
  
“How the hell do you know what I’m thinking?”  
  
He shrugs as if he’s all knowing and it’s beyond infuriating. I hate him.  
  
(I love him.)  
  
We sit, staring at each other from across the table, our tepid tea long forgotten.  
  
“You look tired.”  
  
“I am.”  
  
“When’s the last time you slept?”  
  
“God. It’s been a minute.”  
  
I laugh at him because, fuck, come home with me.   
  
“What?” he asks, his voice light with humor.  
  
“Nothing, just . . . hi.”  
  
He grins at me. “Hi.”

 

  
See? I told you this was a love story.

 

 

 

Fin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A story about them not having sex.  
> (Sort of.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean to write more of this story, but then my finger slipped. 
> 
> I'm playing fast-n-loose with hypersexuality in this chapter. This is very much a real affliction that people have to deal with and I do not mean to offend anyone by my (somewhat) cavalier use of it as a plot device. Forgive me if I have.

 

...

Okay. You know how last time I told you the story of how I met my hypersexual boyfriend who ghosted me for two months after giving me the best sex of my life and making me breakfast the next morning? Well, just in case you were curious as to what happened after he decided to show up in my cafe and announce that he had to remain celibate for six months while simultaneously looking at me like I was a rare bottle of 20-year-old scotch that he wanted to lick every last drop out of with his talented tongue . . .  oh now wait, I’ve lost the thread.

 What was I saying?

 No sex. Right!

 This is the story of us not having sex. Sort of.

 

…

 

“Oh, how lovely! You’ve brought someone with you to our little party.”

(Godmother. Loves it when I’m single and is perpetually disappointed when I bring a date to family gatherings.)

I smile at her with too much teeth. “I did.”

“Just lovely.”

(She hates me.)  

“Hi,” he says, extending his arm to shake my father’s hand and then lays a kiss on my godmother’s cheek. Such a charmer. “It’s wonderful—”

“Yes, yes, it’s charming to meet you! Please, do sit next to me. I want to hear all about my stepdaughter’s new friend.”

“Boyfriend.”

“Right. So sweet.”

He looks back at me with wide eyes and a perplexed expression that might be a cry for help, and yet, all I can do is smile and hope the waiter opens that bottle of chardonnay chilling in the pot next to us soon. Or brings over shots. Whichever comes first.

(Should I have warned him? Probably.)

“Now, what is it that you do?” She asks, her hand trailing along his forearm.

(Ugh.)

“Oh, I’m a woodworker.”

(Yeah, he is.)

“Lovely! What kinds of wood do you work?”

(She can’t help herself. I actually can’t blame her.)

“Pine, mostly.”

“Fascinating.”

(Really?)

“Not really.”

(See.)

He looks at me, his hand finding mine under the table. I smile at him, hating my life.

(Did I mention that it’s been two and a half months and we’re not having sex?)

…

 

Dinner conversation continues with my stepmother dominating every angle of the narrative. It’s best just to let her. Any attempt at upstaging would result in chaos. Now, I’m a massive fan of chaos but considering that, at the moment, I’m so keyed up I want to launch myself onto the nearest telephone pole, all of my dramatic energies are being channeled into not squirming in my seat every time No-Sex-Paddy over here runs his fingers over the crest of my knee.

(He’s doing it now. Christ.)

(Just breathe.)

 

…

 

“You okay?” he asks later as we’re walking back to my flat. He has his hand resting at the base of my neck, teasing along the line of my collar. He’s so tactile and affectionate I want to die.

“Fine.”

(Not fine.)

“Why?” I ask, shrugging his hand off with a roll of my shoulders.

He falters before answering. “Oh, nothing, just. You seemed a bit . . . yah know. At dinner.”

I nod, putting a smile on my face. “Well. Family.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

(I want to scream.)

 

…

 

I realise that I’m totally to blame for the sour mood of the evening as we settle in on the couch with cans of G&T and crisps, ready to watch . . . something, but I can’t be arsed to care. I’m feeling self-destructive and petulant, itchy in my own skin as I watch him flip through the options out of the corner of my eye, the tendons in his forearm flexing as he holds the remote aloft. _His arms._ (Stop it.)

He makes his choice and sits back, tucking up his legs and crossing them in front of him on the couch, looking like a little boy waiting for his presents at Christmas. He runs his hand through his hair. It stays sticking up in all angles. It’s not endearing.

(It is.)

He’s not adorable.

(He is.)

I’m not horny.

(Shut up.)

No, I’m really not. I’m just frustrated.

(Sexually.)

I stand up, unable to sit still. He looks at me, eyes questioning.

“I need. . . “ I trail off, unable to actually say the words, _a proper fucking,_ to him when he’s come so far and has been doing so well and I want to be a supportive girlfriend and I can do this, I really, really can but—

(Fuck it.)

“I need a wank.”

I lock myself in the bathroom and unlatch the window. There’s a pack of cigarettes in the medicine cabinet and I climb over the tub to blow smoke out the screen. His reaction to my outburst had been glorious. His entire face lit up, eyes widening comically as I turned from him, feeling just this side of smug because he’s out there now, thinking about me in here, doing things that he can’t do. The bitter, dark, immature part of myself that I normally try to keep hidden is gleefully jumping up and down right now in victory.

I’m a terrible person. I shouldn’t have done that.

At least, not in that way.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Yeah?”

“You okay?”

I smirk, despite myself.

“Fine.”

“Can I . . . “

(Yes, please!)

He’s trailed off and I let him. There’s a pregnant pause hanging between us, the air heavy with the weight of my, no doubt, expected answer. It's a heady moment. I can change the course of our sexless lives with a single word. It's intoxicating to think that I hold all the power in this situation and he's out there waiting, wanting—

“You shouldn’t.”

I hear his head thud against the door. “Yeah,” he says.

He sounds so sad, so utterly broken that I slide down the tile wall right along with his sunken hopes, slumping down into the tub, knees tucking up under my chin in a pathetic heap of depressive, unquenched thirst. Yes, I’m sitting in a dry bathtub. The irony has not escaped me. 

I listen to him pad down the hall away from me.

I’m left all alone.

...

 

This is my life.

(Great, isn’t it?)

…

 

Wanking has quickly become my new favorite hobby. Well, not new. My right hand and I have been besties since I was twelve and looked up the word clitoris in the dictionary. I just seem to be more in touch (get it?) with myself these days. My out-of-bounds boyfriend has been replaced by my tried-and-tested collection of vibrators. My relationship with each of them runs deep. So very, very deep.

In fact, things are plunging rather deeply right now as I soak in a sud-filled bath and well . . . I just need a minute here.

(Do you mind?)

A gentle knock sounds at the door. I slosh the water over the side, startled.

(It’s been four months, by the way. Four. No sex.)

“Yeah?” I call out.

“'Scones just finished. Want me to bring you one?”

(He bakes. Have I mentioned?)

“Sure!” I say, a little too frantic. There’s a low buzzing sound echoing under the water. Should I stop? Take it out and place it on the side of the bath? That’d be rude, wouldn’t it? _Hey, look at what I’ve replaced you with, babe! She’s great. Makes sure I come every time._

No. Definitely not doing that. I’m horny, not cruel. Well, I suppose sometimes I can—

The door opens.

“Hi!” I say, overly cheery. My cheeks and neck are red, I can tell. He notices and his smile falters a bit as he enters with a tray, suddenly curious.  

I sit up a bit to look at what he’s brought with him. “Oh my, thank you.”

There are two golden scones sliced open on a plate with cream and curd dolloped on the side, which he must have brought ingredients for and made fresh himself. There’s no way I had clotted cream in my fridge. Or lemons. Or butter.

Sitting beside the plate of fresh-baked glutinous glory is a cup of tea.

He’s outdone himself.

“This is too much.”

“Nah, no it isn’t. You worked hard today. So—” he shrugs.

(Seriously. This is normal behavior. My boyfriend is a dark-eyed, mysterious, wood-working Irishman with a wickedly talented tongue and a penchant for baking. Yet, we can’t fuck. Kill me now.)  

He settles the tray down and sits on the rim of the tub. He looks drained from his day at the shop but he’s smiling. The humming of my vibrator continues.

I suddenly feel exposed.  

I’ve been fumbling with the buttons one-handed since he’s entered the room. My attempts to turn it off only manage to turn the setting higher and it tumbles out of my hand. I wince at the racket it makes against the side of the tub.

“Is that?” He asks, pointing at the suds floating around my kneecaps.

(Shit.)

I nod, caught. 

“Really?” His voice always jumps an octave when he’s excited. It should be emasculating but it isn’t, it’s adorable.

He crosses his arms, still smiling. Still staring.

“I’m sorry?” I say, feeling a pang of guilt.

“Why?”

“I mean . . .” the buzzing of the vibrator rattling away against the tub floor is enough of an answer so I simply lift my shoulders in a self-effacing shrug.

He shakes his head, laughing softly. I really have no idea how to read this reaction so I just sit there, getting pruney in the lukewarm water with an unsatisfied lady boner raging between my legs. He sees my face and shakes his head again, as if I’m something precious (what the fuck?) and leans forward to kiss me on the forehead. His hand trails through my hair, tucking a curl behind my ear. It’s sweet, really. Nice. Painfully chaste.

Just when I think he’s about to pull away, he lingers, his breath ghosting hot across my skin. I can feel his hesitation, a split-second moment of clarity before it’s tossed away and he’s moving, his mouth seeking out my own. I tilt my chin up, meeting him halfway.

I should tell you, that sometimes _not_ having sex can be a more erotic experience than actually having sex. That is if you allow yourself some foreplay. A bit of teasing. Heavy petting. A little over the clothes action. But, no.  We haven’t allowed ourselves anything more than casual affection and quick kisses in four months, so I really, really cannot be held responsible for my body’s instinctive reactions.

My hand comes up out of the water to wrap around his neck, holding him in place. I dig my nails in a bit. I can’t help it. He likes that. He presses closer, moaning into my mouth and fuck, I want him.  

Water splashes around us as he braces his hands along the sides of the tub. He’s letting this happen, he’s letting me pull him down.

“Wait,” he says.

(Fucking hell!)

“What?”

“Shhh…” he’s pressing his fingertips to my lips, placating, and I try to bite his hand. He jumps back, eyes flashing. They’re black. He’s hungry for it. I know it.

(I know it.)

I lean forward again but he leans back, his hand resting against my shoulder.

“Wait,” he repeats and I glare at him with murder in my eyes.

He’ll bring me freshly baked scones in the bath but he won’t fucking snog me.

What is my life?

He’s smiling at me and I hate him. He nods as if he’s answering a question I hadn’t asked but I don’t have the patience anymore to analyze his annoyingly silent communications. I move to get out of the bath, too furious to sit still but he’s sliding down onto the floor before I can even get my legs under me. He’s leaning over the side, his left arm is skimming through the water. I’m too busy staring daggers at the man to realise what he’s reaching for before I hear it click to its lowest setting and feel it against my thigh.

I jump.

“Oh.”

He nods again.

( _Oh!_ )

“You’re going to—”

He shifts the vibrator just so and makes contact. I yelp.

(Holy fuck.)

He laughs softly, watching the space between my knees widen as I open them for him.

“This fucking vibrator,” he says, teasing me with it. “I’ve seen it on the bedside table, I’ve seen it here in the bath, even the sitting room. . .”

I’m aware that he’s still speaking but I’m also busy letting my head fall back against the rim of the tub in bliss because _fuck yes!_  Doing this to yourself is one thing, having someone else take the reigns is an entirely different equation and I’m so here for this.

Meanwhile, “—this little guy has replaced me, it seems, and I’m a wee bit jealous.”

“You should be,” I taunt, my voice weak.

He laughs again. It’s a dark sound. I hear the click before I feel the setting change and I moan out. Loudly.

“Fuck, yes.”

“Mmmhmm.”

I open my eyes to see him watching me. He’s getting off on this and fuck that isn't a major turn-on. 

“What’s your favorite bit?” He asks, head tilting to the side just so. He’s warmed up to this little power-play of ours and he wants me to play along, I suspect. I grin and sink lower in the bath, covering half my face with water.

“Oh! Not going to tell me?”

I shake my head.

“Alright.”

Another click. One notch higher. My toes curl against the enamel. 

(Fuck. Me.)

And he does.

Well, I mean, he uses a grotesquely pink, waterproof dildo with three separate pleasure settings designed to drive its users to oblivion over and over again (complete with a two-year warranty) as opposed to his very attractive penis. But still. It counts.

Oh, wait.

(Shit.)

 

…

 

“Does fucking one’s partner with a toy count as sex if you’re a sex addict?”

My therapist looks at me with narrowed, unreadable eyes.

“Do you think it counts as sex?”

“No, I’m asking you that.”

“I'm aware. But I would like to know what you think.”

(Seriously?)

“I mean, I certainly enjoyed myself.”

“And did he?”

“He seemed to.”

She just stares at me. I try again. “You mean, did he . . . finish?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, no.”

(Poor man.)

“Well, then it seems rather one-sided to me.” 

“Can’t sex be one-sided, though? I’ve had plenty of one-sided experiences,” I laugh at myself. My therapist just waits. “You know.”

“No, I don’t," she says, expressionless. 

(Ummmm.)

I clear my throat. “I mean when the man comes but you don’t.”

“Ah.” She jots down a note.

I cross my legs.  

“Has your boyfriend initiated any other sexual encounters with you since?”

“No.”

(Unfortunately.)

“Would you like him to?”

“Yes.”

(Obviously.)

“So what is the problem?”

“The problem is he shouldn’t be doing it.”

“According to whom?”

“His . . .” I actually have no idea. "Sponsor? Counselor?" 

"Are you asking me or telling me?" 

"I dunno."

She nods. “I see.”

 

…

  

One week later, I’m home in bed, vibrator in one hand, glass of gin (straight, ran out of tonic) in the other when I hear the front door rattle. I grin.

“I’m in here,” I call.

“Great.”

Keys. Coat. Shoes. He’s padding his way back to my room when I let slip the softest, sexiest moan in my vast repertoire. It’s subtle. More of a hitch of breath that cuts off into a gentle cry, really. But it does the job. He’s heard it, I can tell because just outside the door the floorboards creak as he hesitates in the hall.

(Gotcha.)

He’s pushing open the bedroom door a moment later.

“Hello,” I say, smiling widely, naked and shameless.

“Jaysus, woman. You’re gonna be the death of me,” he says, practically falling forward onto the bed and taking the vibrator out of my hand.

I laugh as he shakes his head at me and turns up the setting.

 

…

 

The guinea pig calendar on my fridge has us at 40 days and counting.

April can’t come (literally) soon enough.

 

...

 

 

Fin. 


End file.
